Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.'s skill had not sufficed to save him.
The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strength failed
at the last.

K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was
going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.

"I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot," he said. "Look and see."

K. lifted the light covering.

"You're right, old man. It's moving."

"Brake foot, clutch foot," said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.

K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time
enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.

The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below
came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open
his eyes.

"You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever I
get a chance."

"Yes, put in a word for me," said K. huskily.

He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator--that whatever he, K., had
done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal would
count.

The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a
secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the
hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and
played "The Holy City."